Terrible Things
by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: For LWS challenge 3. Based on the song 'Terrible Things' by Mayday Parade. If you haven't heard it I recommend listening for a summary, fic follows the story of the song. Told through blog posts. Teenlock, characters are 19. Johnlock with minor slash, nothing explicit. TW: major character death, depression, sickness, the song 'Terrible Things' by Mayday Parade


**Terrible things**

**Hey this is something I wrote for Let's Write Sherlock challenge 3 based on the song 'Terrible Things' by Mayday Parade. I highly recommend you listen to it and if you don't like angst RUN AND NEVER LOOK BACK. You have been warned. **

* * *

Hi  
So this is pretty fucking awkward, I mean who am I supposed to be writing to anyway? Well, I guess I have to do this so I might as well get it over with.  
My name's John Watson, I'm 19 and I have a therapist. She said I should start a blog and write posts explaining why I'm in therapy. I think it's dumb but I'm going to do it anyway. I'm in therapy because my best and only friend and (I know you're going to judge me now and be all like 'you're only 19') the love of my life is dead. And now I bet you want me to tell you the whole story, well too bad.

* * *

Hi  
So my therapist Sarah said it would be good for me to tell you the whole thing from start to end. She says I have to get it all out. Well then Sarah I hope you're happy because I'm writing it in this fucking blog post to no one and you're not going to read it. I'm only writing this because you're making me and because I don't want other people to make the same mistake. I'm writing this because life can do terrible things.

It started about a year ago. It was raining so I limped into some random cafe off the main road. I remember thinking the coffee was crap. Then the door opened.  
Ok, so imagine like the hottest guy you've ever seen and double it. I'm talking high cheekbones and bright blue-green-gold-rainbow-wtfisthiscolour eyes and fucking raven coloured curls and all that. Like I had never ruled out the possibility that I could be bi, but I've always been into girls (see what I did there? No because you're a sodding computer with no sense of humour). But literally as soon as I saw this guy my mouth just fell open, like in the cartoons, seriously. So I'm sitting there trying not to stare and stirring my shitty coffee, and then he looks at me. Ok, back to the eyes. Even now I couldn't tell you what colour they were, if someone held my at gun point I'd say blue, but I'd be lying. They're blue, but with green and fucking aquamarine and gold and yellow, I don't know. But they're beautiful. I thought it then and I still think it now and I honestly can't see how you could disagree.  
So anyway, he looks at me and I can feel myself going red so I look away. Then 5 minutes later he's standing right behind me, and he says 'excuse me'. And I'm internally freaking out, 1 because he totally snuck up on me and I nearly snorted coffee all over myself, 2 because his voice is low and smooth but kinda husky and its making my hair stand on end and wow I never realised someone's voice could be a turn on, and 3 because HE'S STANDING RIGHT BEHIND ME. But I just say 'yeah?'. And he says 'I can't help but notice you're staring at me'. And I'm like oh shit, he caught me, so I say 'oh. Sorry.' and he says really seriously 'I know I probably shouldn't say this, but I consider myself an expert in facial expressions and deduction and I think you're in love with me'. So obviously I'm like dude what the fuck, you can't say that to people, like I'm making goldfish faces. And he just grins at me, with his goddamn grin. All lopsided and snarky and it makes these adorable creases at the corner of his mouth and he just looks so damn kissable when he does that... So really the only thing I can think to do is ask him out. Yep, supposedly straight and already pretty messed up John Watson, who just got sent home injured from the army and left his 14th unsuccessful relationship with a girl, asked a random and kinda weird _guy_ he just met out on a date. 'Do you want to get a coffee sometime?' that's what I said, exactly those words. It sounds soppy and cheesy but I can still hear myself saying it as though it was someone else and I still can't believe I said it and I can't decide if it was a good decision. And he laughs and says 'I'm assuming you mean elsewhere, the coffee here is appalling'. And I laugh too and that's the first time we laughed together. But I'm still waiting on an answer, which he realises and he sort of blushes and looks away. I'm sorry but I've always been a sucker for adorable blushing and looking away, you know, the whole puppy eyed vulnerability thing. Then he nods and turns to leave. And obviously I'm like 'hey wait! I don't have your number, your address. I don't even know your name.' so he hands me a card (I wrote my name and number on a napkin) and says, the first time he said it I remember clearly, 'the names Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker st'.

* * *

Hi again text box on my supposedly helpful blog  
So since I last posted Sarah asked to see this blog and I said no way in hell and she said that was fine as long as I posted honestly and regularly. I'm guessing she would want me to go chronologically, and as I can't see a better way of doing it, that's what I'll do. This way you can fall in love with him just like I did. Oh who am I kidding you're an inanimate object. Whatever, I'll just stop rambling and get back to the story now shall I? Ok.

The first time we went out I was petrified. Not like normal first date nerves or the 'what to wear' panic (yes guys do that too) or the healthy butterflies, like fucking scared as hell. I had never ever been attracted to a guy like this, or indeed to anyone so strongly, I really did think I was straight. Then there's the fact that I'd only seen this guy once and we arranged to go out a week later so you can understand why I was just a tiny bit terrified.  
I met Sherlock outside his house, well flat, and this became the subject of our first proper conversation.  
'So you've got your own place?' I asked.  
'Yes', and he told me that it's only affordable because the land lady gives him a special deal and the whole time I'm just mesmerised. He's just so bloody attractive and it kinda unnerved me. He's taller than me by about four or five inches, but he looks even taller because of that long black coat he always wears. It was quite a cold day but I remember thinking that a scarf was a bit excessive.  
We walked together, well he walked I sort of staggered, to the main road and I swear to god I could hear my heart beat going crazy. The whole time he was so close and part of me just wanted to reach out and touch... This was just so far outside my comfort zone. He looked pretty freaked out too to be honest, and I soon found out why. We got a drink at a place called Angelo's which he suggested. Angelo himself got us a table and said we could have anything we wanted free; I assume that's why Sherlock chose the place. After we ordered it was a bit awkward, we just sort of sat in silence until he said 'John I think you should know that I have never done this before and I am very much relying on you to make the conversation right now'. That made me smile but I was totally shocked, I couldn't believe this guy had never been on a date, I assumed he'd have girls crawling all over him! Or guys... 'You've never been on a date before?!' I asked incredulously. He shook his head, I love it when he does that because his hair bounces. 'Wow' I literally just sat there flabbergasted, it made me feel kinda special in a way, I mean he could have had anyone he wanted and so had obviously never asked; I supposed that meant I was different if I'd managed to get him out. But this was new for me too, so I said 'well if it makes you feel any better I've only ever dated girls so this is pretty weird for me too'. And he said 'oh. But you're attracted to me?' which again made me just think dude what the hell, timing, but I guess I sort of liked his weird straight forward ness, a lot less confusing than all those girls. (God, girls can be confusing, I mean they never tell you anything and get pissed if you don't pick up on it! I've never had that problem with Sherlock, I mean, he's a genius; he knows exactly what I'm thinking, and I have the experience to help him deal with it… well, usually… but still, he's less confusing than girls.) I nodded and laughed, 'yeah, yeah I guess I am'. He asked me why it was funny and I had to explain, 'most people aren't as straight forward as you on dates. I mean, that's kind of a weird thing to say...' I really didn't know what to do.  
So I asked what he was doing in London and told me about his 'job'. Ok he didn't really explain it very well at this point but now I know I can tell you better... That doesn't even make sense but whatever, this is my blog and no one's reading so fuck it. He's a consulting detective. As he put it 'when the police are out of their depth they consult me', basically he insults his way onto crime scenes and shows up the detectives for fun. It's amazing to watch but not really what I'm supposed to be writing about, not yet anyways.  
Then came the truly incredible bit, the part where I knew I had to do this again. 'So, where did you get shot?'

Ok so basically I only recently got sent home with a wound in my left shoulder and a limp (which Sarah thinks is psychosomatic, fuck her). At this point the only people I've talked to since are my parents and Sherlock himself, and I certainly hadn't told him about the army. Now that I've seen him do it a million times I'm sort of desensitised to his whole 'looks at you and tells you your life story thing' but at the time I was stunned.

So I was like 'sorry?!' and he just said 'well it's obvious you've been deployed home injured.'  
'OBVIOUS?! How is it obvious? I haven't told anyone...!' (yeah I'm doing speech like this now deal with it) and he just smiled and said 'your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military, but I'm guessing from the library receipt in your pocket that you are, or were, training to be a doctor. The earliest you can join the armed forces is 16 and since most contracts last longer than three years and the obvious fact that you're limping suggest that you were deployed home injured, but your limp is at least partly psychosomatic so that would suggest the wound wasn't actually to your leg. So where did you get shot?'  
And I just stared at him like a fucking idiot, I must have looked so weird seriously, and I was just like 'that, was amazing.' and you would not believe how his face lit up, I mean he just smiled like I'd sworn undying love or something, I swear he was practically glowing; and he said 'that's not what people normally say'.  
'What do people normally say?'  
'Piss off.'

And that's probably the exact moment I realised that he's just as messed up as I am, he'd never been on a date and he didn't have any friends. And I guess the aspiring-doctor part of me just wanted to help.

Afterwards we walked (again, he fucking glided while I stumbled next to him) back to baker street and sort of just stood outside 221B until I said 'do you want to go out again then?' and he looked confused 'that is the accepted norm is it not?'  
'Well, yeah if you enjoyed it', I explained 'I mean if you don't want to go out again you don't have to...'  
'No I do' he said, blushing. Looking back I realise how stressful this must have been for him; a few months ago he was talking about it, how he literally had absolutely no idea what he was doing, how he was totally freaking out. I laughed when he told me, I'm not laughing now. Anyway, I smiled like an idiot and asked 'do you like the cinema?' and he shrugged and said 'never been' and I was like 'WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO THE CINEMA?! So I said 'right well then I'm taking you to see a movie and that's it' and he gave me that grin again and I think part of me melted.

Wow I've just read over that and realised how frickin cheesy and awful it sounds. I'm gonna leave now.

* * *

Hi  
I don't know why I'm even saying hi to you, like no one is reading this and you're just a computer. God I'm messed up.  
I'm better today. Sarah said I should say how I feel right now as I write and not just fill this blog with stories about my numerous dates. Ok she didn't say that she just said 'open up more, talk about your emotions'. So yeah, I'm not too bad today. I've been trying to remember the good times instead when it all started to go wrong, so I guess I should just pick this up where I left off.

Our second date we went to the movies. I did ask Sherlock what he wanted to see but he just shrugged so I picked the new star trek movie. It was pretty good actually, but to be honest I wasn't really concentrating. I literally spent the entire two and half hours trying not to stare at him.  
About halfway through we both went for the popcorn (salt, I picked it cos it's my favourite but after that he always chose it, even when he got his own. Obviously I didn't know this yet but he tastes like salt too, if this was a rom com that'd be some cringe-y foreshadowing, something they'd point at near then end in their rainy reunion) at the same time like in frickin rom coms. I remember I felt this, well almost electric shock but I kinda liked it; he jumped so high half the popcorn went all over the floor. He was like 'what are you doing?!' and I laughed 'it was an accident don't panic about it!' We got shushed, I think it was a crucial scene, I don't remember.  
So I waited till later in the film, near then end - the sad bit when Kirk dies, before trying again. I'd been stealing glances all the way through and at this point his hand was sort of dangling off the arm of the chair. I'm pretty sure I could hear my own blood louder than the dialogue, I was panicking frankly. I mean I WAS ON A DATE WITH A GUY! And a guy who I only met a week ago, I guy who'd never been on any dates before. If this had been anyone else, I would have done it already, maybe even tried the yawning thing, but I was scared shitless. But I wanted to touch him so badly; I don't know what's wrong with me. I was kinda worried he was gonna flip out again but I guess my brain just went 'fuck it' because I took his hand, well I kind of grabbed really... He did jump a bit, but not as much this time. And he looked at me and whispered 'is this what people normally do at the cinema?' and I whispered back 'yeah if they're on a date I guess' and then we got shushed again.  
But after the film when we left, still holding hands, he said 'I think I like this.'  
'This?'  
'This whole, hand-holding thing,' he gestured to our interlocked fingers, 'I didn't think I would, I never thought I would. But I think I like it' he smiled at me and I felt all mushy and nice. That's the worst description I've ever read, I think I want to throw up.

Once again we stood awkwardly outside 221b, hands still linked. It was late now but I didn't want to go, and I didn't want to let go. That's another thing about Sherlock, he has really nice hands. Ok that sounds like I have a freaky hand fetish or something... I don't, but they are really nice. He'd never held hands with anyone before but he was surprisingly good at it, it was comfortable, warm, safe and soft; I liked it.  
It was dark, this was back in early October, and I remember the street lamp making weird shadows on his face because of the hair and the cheekbones. I think if this was an ordinary date I probably would have kissed him. But I didn't. I mean come on, I THOUGHT I WAS STRAIGHT OK?! Why am I even defending myself to you, you're not even listening because you're a fucking computer.  
So yeah, I asked if he enjoyed the film and he shrugged and said he enjoyed going to the film with me, but that the picture was mediocre at best (I actually think it's a pretty good film but I didn't say that at the time because my insides were fucking up at what he'd just said). I asked if he wanted to go out again, he said yes but that he didn't have any suggestions as he'd never done this before. I said we didn't have to do anything special, we could just go to dinner or something. He agreed and I thought I caught him blushing which made me smile.  
I didn't realise it then but I was already falling in love with him, and that was a big mistake.

* * *

I'm not happy today, today is a bad day. There you go Sarah, satisfied?

So we went to dinner, and started to see how frickin weird he is. I ordered - I think I had pizza but honestly I don't remember - but he didn't. So at this point I was kind of weirded out, like why go to dinner if you're not going to order? So I asked 'aren't you going to eat anything?' to which he just said 'digestion slows me down'. Ok now as a medical student and someone who had already developed a probably unhealthy protective instinct over this guy, I was shocked and, distressed I suppose. So I'm like 'Sherlock you have to eat something! When did you last eat?!' and he just sits there fucking counting! And then he says '2 days and 11 hours' and I'm like WTF HOW ARE YOU NOT DYING?! So I call the waiter back and make him order. I think even though he didn't really want to eat he appreciated it.  
While we ate I asked him about his life, you know normal stuff. He told me about all the murder scenes he's been on, which was interesting but not the sort of thing you would usually discuss over dinner. He was really starting to open up and I love that, I love it when I manage to work out how people tick and get to learn more about them on their grounds. Then I asked about his family. God even now I look back and cringe. He sort of shut off again after that, just shrugged and said 'we're not very close', and that was the end of it. But he did finish his meal, which made me happy because I felt I'd achieved something.

This time we didn't just stand outside 221b, I asked if I could come in. Yeah I know it's kinda rude but he wasn't going to invite me was he? After our usual 'did you have a nice time?'  
'Yes'  
'Do you want to go out again?'  
'Yes'  
I said 'so, um, is it alright if I come up for a bit?' and he was obviously super confused, 'What does that entail? I haven't done this before...' The poor guy must have been shitting himself. He said later that he honestly couldn't even offer a suggestion as to my plans. Yeah, that's a quote, he makes it sound like I'm some sort of perverted sex criminal. I grinned and took his hand, again feeling that almost electric shock at first touch, 'nothing, it doesn't have to entail anything. We can just have a drink if that's what you want'. Honestly, despite being terrified of any further physical contact I couldn't help wanting to do more than just have a drink. With past gfs we'd usually be kissing at this point and with the last one... Jeanette..? I think...? I was in her dorm snogging by date four. Yeah, I usually go reasonably fast in relationships, so sue me.

So we went upstairs and I can't but think I'm gonna throw up my stomach feels so full of nerves and Italian food. And then he opened the door.  
Let me give you a description of 221b Baker St because I don't think you'll appreciate the shock I felt unless you understand its true chaos and weird comfort.

Most of the walls are a pale minty green that used to make me feel slightly ill, but two of them are wallpapered with the most horrible paper I've ever seen in my life. It was probably thrown out and Mrs Hudson (the land lady) found it in a skip or something. The floor's this dirty, scuffed up old wood, with a moth eaten rug thrown over to cover it up. Two full length windows overlook the street below. But it's not the room that's shocking really, it's what's in the room.  
Bookshelves, four of them, each piled high with all the books you can imagine. Encyclopaedias, biographies, dictionaries, novels, witty nonfiction, religious texts, maps and atlases, literally everything. As well as all those, the chairs and tables and pretty much every surface is covered with yet more reading material. Letters and bills and newspapers and magazines, case studies and post-mortem reports. All the furniture's mismatched and second hand, everything looks damaged or dirty and, I can't lie, the skull on the mantelpiece seriously freaked me out.  
Then there's the kitchen. A scuffed and marked table groans under the weight of not only masses of paper but all his 'experiments'; petri dishes, flasks, a microscope. There isn't a clear surface anywhere. Ever. Just piles and piles of plates and dishes and unwashed crockery. And the body parts. Like I take medicine, I can handle a bit of gore, but bodies where there's food?! Thumbs in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave, bags of human hair in the ice drawer. I didn't even live here yet and it irked me, more than irked it seriously freaked me out (I wander how many times I'm gonna end up saying that…?).

When I turned back to him I saw a new expression for the first time (one of our many firsts…), his dewy-eyed 'do you like it?' face. He usually does it when he's tried to do something nice: clearing away the plates, making coffee or breakfast, finally buying some god damn milk; and he wants to know if I like it. Either that or he's fucked something up and doesn't want me to be mad at him. Sometimes I catch him doing after he's done some really clever deduction he's just waiting for me to go on and on about how wonderful and smart he is, which I don't because I'd never hear the end of it. But sometimes I just can't resist it, when he does that I can't be mad and I can't disprove. Even the time he hacked my laptop just to read my dissertation and pick holes in it, or the time he tried to make cake and probably got more flour around the flat than in the bowl. Some people might think it's unhealthy that one look into those sodding puppy eyes and I'm screwed and I just have to leave it and kiss him instead, but fuck them. I think it's good that we don't argue, oh we bicker all the time, about the stupidest of things, but I've never had a reason to be properly angry at him.

So anyway, I turn around and he's giving me this look and I can't help beam at him and say 'nice place'. I couldn't really say anything else could I? I mean I was a guest and he was going me the bloody eyes. At this he cracks the first smile since dinner and asks if I want to sit down. We both do, in two chairs facing each other. And now I'm back to having a freakin heart attack, I'm not surprised he doesn't know what this entails because right now I don't have a clue either. He doesn't say anything for a while and then goes 'so, what are we doing again?' god, looking back I wish I'd never come in, it just made us both uncomfortable. But I suppose I got to look around my future home.  
'Nothing, I don't know...' I'm seriously confused and it's all happening too fast, which is not a problem I've had before; I really don't mind going fast. So I say 'shall I just leave?' to which he doesn't respond for almost a solid minute. Then he says slowly, 'I don't want you to. But I am very confused as your objective.' who even talks like that? God his voice is hot, I miss it.

I don't really know how to respond so I just sigh 'I don't know, maybe this is too soon... I'm sorry Sherlock, I'm gonna leave.' he doesn't say anything, sits there and lets me walk out the door. Jesus why did I do that? Why did I have to leave? It would have been fine, but no, I freaked out over something I've done 14 times and got out of there.

We joked about it later, after I'd apologised over and over for leaving him completely overwhelmed and befuddled. He said he stayed up the whole night just sitting in that chair and trying to get his head round it. I couldn't help but laugh at him, but to be honest I'd be lying if I said I didn't sleep well because my head was full of Sherlock Holmes and what the hell I was doing with him.

The next day I felt bad but I figured it was new day and I should put it behind me. I really wish I could still do that. So I texted him:

_Sorry I left. Dinner was nice, do you want to do it again? _

_JW _

He only replied with one word, 'yes', but I was so relieved you'd think he'd saved my fucking life or something. Well, he did really.

* * *

Hey  
Not as bad today, thanks for asking, computer. Sarah said I seemed 'even more shut up' on Tuesday, she asked how the blog was going. I think she thinks I need to get a move on and 'get it out'. So I'm not going to go into detail.

I'm not going to go into detail about the time we went for brunch on campus and he remembered my coffee order from the very first time we met and even knew that I have an insane weakness for cherry bakewells (literally if I was a superhero, Sherlock and cherry bakewells would be my kryptonite).  
I won't go into details about our second cinema trip where we saw the new hobbit movie (I still think it's ridiculous they're making it into three films...) and shared popcorn (salt, see told you we'd have more than one cheesy rom com moment) and held hands and I managed to lean on his shoulder without him spilling any of it.  
I won't go into detail about the first time we held hands in a really public place, we walked through the park and though there's no point denying I was pretty scared, it was nice and even in central, busy London I felt safe and we weren't accosted. It was cold, late November, and the temperature made him even paler and my nose go bright pink. He laughed and said it was cute. I shoulder barged him into a lamppost.  
Or the time he walked with me to a lecture, I didn't even ask him to he just showed up on my doorstep one morning. Stalky but thoughtful in a strange Sherlock-y way.  
Or the time we went into town together and I discovered his soft spot for roasted chestnuts.  
Or the time I found out he'd never been to a fair or a theme park and vowed to take him to Alton Towers as soon as it opened again in the spring.

But one thing I will go into detail about is the first kiss because fuck you Sarah that's important and I had I any readers they'd probably want to know about it. Plus I want to write about it, this is my blog, you'll never read it and 'the patient is never wrong' so there.

We went Christmas shopping together on the 5th of December (yeah of course I remember the date). I suggested it because I knew I needed to get presents sorted early after the complete fuck up that was last year, but also if we went early enough we might avoid the London shopping crush. That plus I thought it would be nice not to go alone. It hadn't snowed yet, I think most of the people where glad, snow makes everything difficult. But I'm stupidly immature and I love it. I love sledging and snowball fights and angels and snowmen. And, I had actually had a date too last Christmas but that ended disastrously, I love holding hands in the snow and kissing in the snow and the way it sticks to hair and eyelashes, I think it's cute. So anyway, I wanted it to snow and it hadn't yet and we went Christmas shopping.

It was stupidly busy already, there were so many people I didn't even have a choice but to hold onto him so we didn't separate and get carried away by the mass of people. Hey, I'm not complaining, I love holding his hand, but come on... It was the centre of a big city, someone's bound to have a problem with it and sometimes you just aren't in the mood to get attacked by homophobic idiots, you know? Anyway, whether you're in the mood for it or not, it happens.

We were on the way back from a rather successful trip in my opinion. I managed to get something for mum, dad and Harry and Clara, so that meant I had nearly three weeks to get round to wrapping them. Sherlock didn't buy anything and when I asked why he said his family 'didn't really do Christmas'.  
'How can you not do Christmas?' I asked, 'are you Jewish or something?' he laughed as we turned the corner into a quieter road, 'we just don't. I mean we have an enforced dinner but we don't do the gift thing.' don't do the gift thing? What's that supposed to mean? That he's never as a Christmas present?! He laughed again at the incredulous look on my face, 'no John I've never had a Christmas present.' HE'S NEVER HAD A CHRISTMAS PRESENT! HIS PARENTS TOLD HIM SANTA WASN'T REAL WHEN HE WAS FOUR! So I knew I was going to go shopping again, and this time alone. I'd already given him plenty of firsts, I could give him his first gift to. Obviously he saw the look on my face or my bloody socks gave it away or something because he said quietly 'you don't have to...'  
'I want to.' and I squeezed his fingers.  
That was when it happened.

I can't remember the exact hateful and ridiculous words he used, but I remember being momentarily confused. It was like when someone yells the wrong name a you, or when you get beeped in traffic and you're not sure if it's meant for you; this guy shouted 'hey faggot' and I didn't even realise he meant me. I mean, I was just walking along holding hands with a date, I'd done this many, many times before and never had abuse yelled at me, why should this time be any different? Then I remembered I'm not holding hands with a girl.

So I turn around and this guy is right behind us, and he starts properly shouting in our faces and my first instinct is to let go but Sherlock has my hand so tight I physically can't. And this insane guy is still fucking yelling and I'm so shocked I can't respond, to be honest I'm disappointed and disgusted that no one even bats an eyelid. and then he says something along the lines of 'I bet if you hadn't been turned down by every women in your fucking life you'd be into pussy like the rest of us normal people!' and I open my mouth to say something because what the fuck?! I try to stay calm and ignore people like this usually but I literally had to fight every impulse I had that was telling me to punch the dick in the face. But Sherlock got there first, 'actually he's been with 14 women which I gather is more than you, and our relationship is going extremely well, how about you? Oh, I'm sorry, you just got divorced? How very insensitive of me.' so me and this prick are both totally gobsmacked, like I'd seen him do the deduction thing a few times by now but HOW?! Then the guy literally looks like he's going to hit someone so I sort of back away pulling Sherlock with me where he starts shouting again and man this dick can shout. So we start running and I guess he probably lost interest and left but we didn't stop till we got back to 221b. Yes, I said running. I didn't realise that I wasn't using the cane until after I got home. See, I told you there was some literal meaning to 'he saved me'.  
'Well that was interesting...' I said, well panted. He agreed and after a pause, probably for breath, asked 'are you alright?'  
'Fine.' and although that's true physically, I was internally pretty messed up. I mean, I'd never experienced being properly attacked by a stranger and, after all, I'd assumed I never would be. Especially not for holding hands with a guy. He knew that of course, if he can tell a guy's just got divorced within five seconds he can tell when I'm lying.  
'That's never happened to me either.' he said.  
'Really?' I laughed, 'you certainly handled it like you knew what you were doing!' he grinned in his adorable 'I'm glad you like it' way and that's when I knew he's just as protective over me as I am of him and that made me smile too. Then I remembered what he said to the guy and my stomach felt like it did a flip or something. 'So,' I said after a pause 'our relationship is going _extremely well_...?' he shrugged, 'I have formed that opinion. Why, do you disagree?'. Of course not, my heart does a fucking somersault every time I see you!  
'No, no!' I shook my head and nervously took up his other hand, 'quite the opposite.' That's when it started to snow, light flecks like in the frickin movies. It settled on his hair and eyelashes like icing sugar on brownies or something (look at that simile, who's not G&T in English now?) and I think the part of me that's a sucker for snow just took over and I said 'can I kiss you?'

At the time it wasn't really funny but looking back I can't help but burst out laughing at the sheer panic on his face, proper deer in the headlights look. I don't blame him, after I said I completely regretted it and I was fucking petrified, and I'd done it before! The furthest he'd ever been with anyone was this, was holding hands and facing a hater together, he must have been properly internally screaming. So after a pretty intense three seconds of just gawping at each other, I used pretty much every polite variant of 'I fucked up, ignore me' in the English language, featuring popular favourites such as 'no, sorry...' and 'I didn't mean...' and 'forget it'. But he interrupted me, 'yes.'

Again, at the time I just blanked, but looking back I can fully appreciate that single 'yes'. I mean he was a nineteen year old not-only-virgin but having had no friends, never been on a date and currently never even reached a six year olds definition of first base. I'd built up his trust and confidence from jumping two feet when our hands accidentally brushed to being happy to display PSA in a busy shopping centre. Before, he seemed to panic I was a rapist every time I touched his hand, now he was comfortable enough to touch lips. That 'yes' meant he trusted me completely.

'Yes?' I repeated, so taken aback I took a literal step back.  
'Yes.' He said again, doing that thing where he locks eyes with you and they're so fucking bright you have to look away because man it's hard to hold a gaze with eyes like that. But I still wasn't sure, 'yes I can… kiss you?'  
'Yes,' he smiled and squeezed my fingers, 'you can kiss me.' Ok at this point you're probably wandering what my problem was, I asked the guy didn't I? He said yes didn't he? But I was pretty stressed out right now, I mean I hadn't even noticed I wasn't using the fucking crutch! So I started babbling again, 'we don't have to, I mean, I don't want to rush you…' but he interrupted me again. And not with words this time.

Alright, so I don't think it counts, but still, it was pretty great. He pulled away so quickly part of me wasn't sure it really happened. My lips felt hot and I was blushing so hard I thought my head would explode all over the snow covered pavement. I felt like screaming but I laughed out loud at the look on his face. Like seriously, it was like he'd not just seen a ghost but a whole army of the un-dead or something. I was worried his eyes were gonna poop out of his head. Eventually though I managed to say 'what was that?' He still looked absolutely terrified as he said 'I… I don't know…'  
'Did you just try to kiss me?'  
'Umm, I think so…?' he looked away as if embarrassed, but after a few seconds looked straight back at me so quick I'm surprised he didn't crick his neck. 'Did I get it right?' I couldn't help it, he honestly looked so petrified, I lost it. I mean, even at twelve I knew there was no rule book.  
'Are you serious?' I spluttered, 'there's no right or wrong!' He shrugged, 'did I do well?' I kept laughing but his face was so serious and I laugh really weirdly so I stopped pretty quickly.  
'Fine,' I blushed again, I probably looked like freaking tomato at this point, 'but, uh, I don't think it really counts.' He raised an eyebrow questioningly, his socially confused face. I think it's cute but I don't say it because I know how irritating it is to be 'cute', I'm short I've spent my entire dating life being 'cute'. Anyway, he says 'I don't understand... Doesn't count as what?' and I'm so disbelieving at this point I just sort of give up on explaining and kiss him.

Yeah that's right I'm starting a new paragraph just to describe it, deal with it. My first ever kiss was with a girl (no shit) and I remember it being kinda crap. I think that's the way first kisses are supposed to be, disappointing. But this wasn't.

I mean, I'd done it a hundred times by now (that makes me sound like a man whore...) so I was fine. Well, I was far from fine, my insides where like having some sort of ecstasy rave but at least I was better prepared than him!

Anyway, it wasn't disappointing; far from it. He surprised me really, he always surprises me. It was amazing. I don't think even the guy from the park could have spoiled the moment, it was just so perfect. Like wow where did he learn this shit?! It was his first kiss and he was already better than me! He's always so gentle and sincere and for me that's more meaningful. He tastes like salt and his hair smells like cinnamon and tobacco which makes this weird but kinda nice aroma (excuse me while i throw up because I never thought I'd use the word aroma). I have to stand on tiptoe to kiss him but for once I don't mind being the short one. I was still holding his hands, they were cold even after all this time but the kiss was warmer, probably because I was fucking blushing so much before. And because, you know mouths are naturally warmer than hands it just makes sense. Where the fuck am I going with this? Anyway, I can't really describe it. It was amazing.

It only lasted a few seconds, I broke it off. But only because I didn't think it was fair on him to start making out or something.

'Alright?' I asked, to be honest I think part of my was terrified he was gonna flip out again and run into the flat and bolt the door and never talk to me again, but he didn't. He just did that bloody smile and nodded. 'So,' I asked him 'that was your first kiss... ever...?' he shrugged, 'if the first one didn't count then yes.' right, we at least he wasn't freaking out, that was all me. Internally mind, I mean, I was fine except I'd never been anyone's first kiss and I'd never kissed him and I'd never kissed a guy so you can kind I understand it. We stood there for a bit until he said 'so are we going to go out again?' and I laughed, but couldn't help be a tiny bit pleased because up until now I've always asked. 'I'm going to go out on a limb here and say you don't have to ask that anymore.'  
'I don't?'  
'No, Sherlock...' god I can't say it's easy when he does something funny and doesn't understand and I have to explain it... 'Look it's been more than two months, we see each other nearly every day,' it's true, he'd started walking me to lectures all the time, or we'd go for coffee in the afternoon. 'I thought you were the genius detective, that you'd have got the hint that yeah I do actually want to go out again.' he's silent for a bit as if genuinely puzzled; later he told me he was contemplating that inevitably all couples will break up, even if one of them leaves in a coffin, and therefore he thought it very sensible to ask. He's right of course, the chance of success in a relationship is lower than the chance of failure and even if it is literally 'till death do us part', what the chances of dying together? I learned that the hard way.  
'Alright then,' he says having finished his contemplation of the universe, 'good night.'  
'Right, uh good night...' he turns to go and I know I probably shouldn't have but I couldn't help myself, I pulled him back round to face me and kissed him on the cheek. I let go pretty quickly and he grinned again and vanished inside.  
Wow.  
I was so elated that I jumped off the top step of 221b like in high school frickin musical. Yep. So I kissed him and technically if were unpicking it he kissed me first and nothing makes me happier in the world. But that feeling doesn't last. Oh the memory will, that'll last and haunt you forever, but not the feeling. I know I'll never feel like that again, that rush when you feel requited.

* * *

Hi

I guess today I'm alright, but Sarah seems to think otherwise. I know therapists aren't supposed to judge but mad does she judge, like I can tell when she's really agreeing and when she's just nodding. It's her job to try and fucking understand not just pretend to but the whole just be thinking 'omg he's only 19 this is ridiculous.' Because 19 year olds have no self-knowledge and know nothing about the world therefore cannot make decisions and cannot love. Fucking people, I am so sick of being looked down on and patronised, I'm nearly 20! PEOPLE CAN GET MARRIED AT 16, clearly the government thinks you can love someone despite your age starting with a 1. God. Anyway, shall I get back to actually doing something 'productive and therapeutic'? Yes? Ok.

It was at this point I realised I should probably tell my parents, after all I knew they weren't going to disown me or anything because Harry was already married to Clara. In the end I told Harry first, over the phone. That was pretty awkward. Not least because she is super nosy and threatened to drive down here to double date. I hung up after that, but she called back a minute later saying she just texted mum and I should expect a call from her. Thanks for that Harry.  
Mum was kind of upset but only because she wants grandkids. I did point out IVF, surrogacy and adoption but to no avail. She was fine though, I told her Harry had considered sperm donation in a few years. She hadn't; she hates kids, but it got me out of it.

It was about five weeks after that that we had the song conversation. Yeah, 'the'. It was significant ok? It's the only physical thing I have left. Well, and my house…  
Anyway, it was the third time I went into 221b and this time I actually managed to stay for an entire evening. We played Cludo.

Ok, after falling in love, playing Cludo with Sherlock Holmes has to be the worst decision I ever made. After about ten minutes of 'strategic logical reasoning' he chose to play as miss Scarlett, but only because she goes first. Even after I'd explained 100 times he still kept treating the whole thing like a real investigation, he asked if he could call me in for questioning. Yeah, really. After about two hours, TWO MOTHERFUCKING HOURS, he decides to make an accusation (even though I already knew it was professor plumb in the library with the led piping I was going to let him win so we could finish already). I don't think even I would have guessed what he said. He accused the victim. Yep. So then began probably our most heated argument, me insisting that YOU CANNOT DO THAT and that it's not in the rules, him shouting that the rules are wrong and that it was the only possible explanation. Somehow it ended up with the Cludo board stuck in the wall with a kitchen knife and us kissing on his worn out leather sofa. Which wasn't too bad at all…

Anyway, even after almost four months, it didn't last very long. Personally I commend my own self-restraint at this point because while I'm not a rapist, when I say self-restraint I don't mean I was seconds away from ripping his clothes off, but I am a horny 19 year old and he's hot ok? I just mean it wouldn't have been fair to get really physical or start pressurising him because he'd never even had a friend, but it certainly wasn't easy. So we talked instead, about music. Eventually it got to the point where I had to do it, I mean, every guy has to be asked the song question once in his life right? I know I had. So I did it, I said 'if you had to pick, what would be our song?' He was so confused it was laughable, 'what do you mean? I can compose…?' that wasn't what I meant but who's gonna turn down an offer to have a song written for them? (in the end I got a four minute solo violin sonata and, well I suppose no one's going to see this so I might as well admit it, it almost made me cry. I only got to hear him play it once.) I said 'no, I mean, one that you think fits, um, us… you know, like the lyrics or something…' god I felt like an idiot now.  
'I see… well, what would you say?'  
God, I was kind of hoping he would go first because I could only think of one thing and what boy wants to admit he likes Kelly Clarkson, or Glee cast covers… but I'm glad I did because honestly, it may not be a beautiful, flowing classical piece, but the lyrics are so accurate I can't help but think of him. 'My Life Would Suck Without You.' He'd never heard it, of course, and even though this meant he wasn't going to judge me (as much) I still blushed scrolling down my iPod to find it. Even now I don't really know what was going through his mind, but he nodded in agreement once it had finished. At the time I just thought he was trying not to hurt my feelings, but I know now that's crap. For one the only time he ever tried not to hurt my feelings by lying was the night he went to hospital, plus if he's happy to get it carved into a ring he's happy to listen and hum along. Before he'd never admit that he could enjoy shitty pop as much as the rest of us, but since I caught him playing it at 2am whilst googling Kelly, he dropped it. And yeah I know it's shitty pop, I know that. But it is the perfect song, so fuck you… inanimate object…

Anyway, I asked if he'd thought of anything and he said 'Arrival of the Birds'. I'll admit at the time I'd probably only heard it once on an advert or something, but now I could sing you the entire 8 minutes. And how could I forget, with it pressed against my middle finger. It doesn't even have any words, it shouldn't mean anything. But it's so beautiful and so flawless. It just fits so well. It has its variations and its ups and downs, it has it's darker moments, but in the end it's the same graceful and wonderful melody and theme (my friend took GCSE music, this is one of the few things I know how to write a description of). We listened to it together and even though I've never been particularly musical, it touched me; I knew he'd really thought about it, that he really cared.

After that, things moved quite a lot faster.  
We didn't go to Alton towers, I couldn't afford a cab, but I took to him to a fair and forced him on the biggest rollercoaster. The entire time we were queuing he was trying literally every method to get out of it; explaining the stupidity of fairground rides, physically attempting to escape (that earned us a LOT of staring, which I guess was the point), I even managed to resist the puppy eyes. But as soon as we got off he walked straight back round to the back of the queue. We shared candy floss like an ordinary couple, also earning a few looks but I was used to it by now. On the way home we kissed and I could still taste it.  
I was spending a whole lot of time at 221b, probably more than I was at home. We played cards, which although better than Cludo, would still have been easier to play with anyone else.  
I was dragged onto my first crime scene, Sherlock insisting DI Lestrade let me look at all the bodies ('he's a doctor, inspector. And he's with me'). It was morbid, depressing and meant numerous all-night-ers, but god was it interesting. I don't want to admit it but Sarah's wrong, I'm not haunted by the war; honestly, I miss it. Not the getting shot, obviously, the danger and excitement, the adrenaline. I never thought I'd find that in something a trivial as dating. I didn't want to leave truthfully, I didn't want to go back to a tiny student flat and finish my med course in staggering debt, but I did. And hey, it didn't turn out so bad. The medical side certainly came in use in the month he needed constant care.

And we'd sped up in terms of physical, stuff... for which I was glad. Well, obviously, why would you go on a date with someone if you weren't at least a bit interested in getting a tiny bit physical? Anyways, at 6 months we were kissing in public, only lightly, hardly anything. At home, and by home I mean 221b Baker St - we never once went back to mine - it was a lot more. Well, I say a lot, I mean a lot in relation, a lot for him. By 7 months (god, this sounds like one of those pregnancy things, by 7 months your baby is the size of an aubergine) we were properly making out, I mean like with tongues and shit, on the sofa with my legs either side. Yeah.  
I imagined, well I never really thought about until we started dating, that kissing a guy would be almost the same as with girls, but it's not. Well, I'm probably not the best judge I've kissed 13 girls and only one guy but still. It's more... equal. I wasn't worrying if I was doing alright the whole time, well that probably had something to do with the fact he had nothing to compare it to, but also because I knew he wasn't going to spend hours gossiping and comparing with a gaggle of girlfriends. And again, he always surprises me. He's the best kiss I've even had, and I'm not just saying that. I mean the fireworks thing is still a load of shit, but you can tell when it's better, when it's right. Compared to him Jeannette was crap, and I slept with her. But I think the best part isn't actually kissing, well, that's pretty good, but it's knowing that I didn't pressurise him, I didn't even ask. It's knowing that he trusts me enough, loves me enough to.  
By 9 months, I'd moved in.

It was a very wet, very British summer. We'd planned to go out but the streets were practically one huge puddle. I was working on my 'heavily flawed, even a child could do better' dissertation and Sherlock had recently started watching crap telly. I knew it was dangerous to get him hooked, but it makes me laugh when he yells at Jeremy Kyle to do the DNA test again ('NO of course he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn ups on his jeans!'). It was during the ad break when he said 'you spend a lot of time here'. It's true, I'd even spent a couple of nights. In a guest bedroom of course but still. Loads of my stuff practically lived here, I practically lived here. 'Yeah...' I said tentatively.  
'I've never been to your flat.' again, it was just a statement but it was almost a question. No way was I taking him to my grotty student room in the cheapest, skankiest halls of residence. 221b may be messy and cluttered and dirty, but at least it feels like a home.  
'You wouldn't like it,' I said, 'it's gross seriously, I'd much rather be here.' I don't need to add 'with you'.  
'You'd rather be here, all the time?' he asked, turning to look me. At this point my mind was properly fucking up, was he asking me to move in?! I'd never moved in with anyone, my longest relationship was a year and at 16 there was no point. But I just said 'yeah I guess...' and waited.  
'I have another bedroom.'  
'You're asking me to move in...?'  
'I'm asking of you'd like to.' I just sort of stared at him for a while (seriously this is making me realise how much I 'sort of stare', it's ridiculous!) until I said 'yes'. Why wouldn't I? At this point I think I knew I loved him, I wasn't going to say it because who wants to be the first one to use the L-word? Especially when they've never been in a relationship. Maybe I should stop repeating that, I think I've made my point. Actually fuck it this is my blog and no one's reading it. Anyway, I moved in. It was really a perfect idea, I didn't have to pay as much, I didn't have to live in that gross flat and I got to live with him. Well, that wasn't so easy. I love him to bits but I can't deny he is a fucking nightmare. Violin at 2am, experiments and dissections in the kitchen, HE KEEPS BODY PARTS IN THE FRIDGE, fucking explosions and chemicals everywhere, there is no hope of ever tidying up, the wall-shooting (yeah as in he shot the wall), he can't do anything for himself. I really am surprised he managed to live this long on his own, he never goes shopping, hardly eats properly, has a ridiculous sleeping pattern and when he's 'thinking' he won't even move to get a bloody pen. To be honest it works well, he's lazy and I'm a pushover. I did make him come shopping with me as soon as I moved in though, we filled the whole trolley and I made him empty the fridge so we could restock it. It took about three hours. Yep. And at least a third of that was pointless bickering and him trying to worm his way out of it. He caused quite a scene as I dragged him around Tesco, almost pulling the trolley into a group of old ladies who, even after I had apologised a million times and made Sherlock say sorry, muttered loudly as we walked away about the 'violent youth' and gossiped about whether we were together or not. I hate it when people do that, I mean, it's not there business! Of course I'd rather people gossiped to themselves than started harassing me, but every time I just want to turn back am shout 'yeah he is my boyfriend, got a problem with that?!' I never have though, yet...

* * *

Hi  
Sarah wanted to know how much I've written, when I told her almost 9000 she insisted that she was right, this was a good idea. Ok maybe it was, I do feel better after having a rant that no one can see or even just listing the things I love about him. But I don't want to admit Sarah's right, not after the stunt she pulled last week with the ring. She asked if I'd got to the part where I end up checking myself into therapy yet. Uh, no. She asked how I'd managed to write 9000 words and not even get there. Uh, it's not difficult Sarah. You're married, I bet you could write 9000 words about the love of your life. God she's judgemental. Anyway, I think what she wants is for me to hurry the fuck up, so I'll skip ahead. Yeah I'm gonna use the same wonderful technique that I used to skip earlier because that's the only way I know how to do it and damn it Sarah I don't want to skip anything. I want to forget a single detail and I don't want you telling me to skip to the 'important bit' because to me it's all important. I only had a short amount of time with him so I'm going to make the most of it.

I'll skip over the summer picnics, where we lay together in the sun and kissed and got tangled in the rug.  
I'll skip over the day trip to the beach. I managed to drag him into the sea and he splashed me in the face while I rolled up his trousers. He tasted more like salt than ever.  
I'll skip over the time we watched the lord of the rings and he said I looked like a hobbit and I accidentally on purpose got yoghurt on his nose. (I'm immature ok, I told you that.)

One thing I would not mind skipping is Harry's surprise visit. Yeah, she just showed up unannounced one day about 6 saying 'I did text you John, did you change your number or something?' She brought Clara too. I manage to hold off on double dating but it was still pretty freakin awkward. Clara's not very talkative, Sherlock's extremely unsociable and I was furious at Harry for turning up announced that basically left her to try and make conversation. It started with simple stuff like 'how long have you guys been living together?' and 'where did you meet?' and 'I don't really understand what you mean by consulting detective...' but soon she was on a roll and Harry can be pretty fucking nosy. 'Have you guys had sex yet?' to which she got spluttering from me and a 'no' from Sherlock, my personal favourite which she ALWAYS asks (I mean for god's sake I never ask her girlfriends!) 'Is John actually any good as kissing?'. Yeah she actually asks that. Every. Single. Time. Actually it wasn't that bad this time because instead of a muttered 'ummm, I don't think...' before I shut Harry up, she got a straight (ha ha the irony. My humour is wasted in this computer) 'yes'. Then it was her turn to splutter.  
Afterwards Sherlock said he thought she was 'nice but not like you'. When I asked what that meant he said 'she's very loud. And you don't ask as many questions'.

But that night when I leant over to kiss him goodnight he said 'your sister thought we'd had sex'. What. The. Fuck. So I'm like totally hyperventilating right now, like WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?! WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME?! But I just say 'ummm, yeah… but she's just nosy' and hope for the best. And then he says slowly 'is that what you want?'  
'What?! No! I mean,' and I'm blushing ridiculously, like a freaking cherry or something, 'uh, well, maybe, I don't know, at some point, but I don't want to pressure you, or freak you out or something! Honestly, really it's ok, I don't, it's all fine...!' He didn't say anything and for a second I was terrified I'd fucked everything up. Then he goes 'I wasn't saying...'  
'I wasn't saying either! It's... I'm just saying, it's all fine...' so I went to bed, having just experienced the most awkward and shit worthy conversation of my existence. I mean seriously, I was flipping out. I hadn't even thought about it, I mean it! I mean yeah in terms of looking at him and thinking 'A+ 10 out of 10 would bang' but not like actually thinking 'I want to have sex with him I'm gonna ask him if he wants that too and go and get an STI check and buy condoms etc...'. But when I thought about it, I realised maybe that was what I wanted... I don't know what I thought, a small part of me did want to, but the rest of me was practically throwing up with nerves at the very suggestion. I'd had sex before but that was very different and it doesn't really become second nature after one try. I hadn't ever talked about it but I'm going to take a wild stab in the dark and say Sherlock hadn't (wow would you think that I turned out to be right! Wow what a strange world we live in I would never have guessed!) and I know how utterly terrifying that first time is. But that was another thing, I may be the more experienced here but this would be my first time with a guy as well, maybe we weren't the best match possible for this... On the other hand though, we were. I mean, I was his first friend, his first date, his first kiss, why shouldn't I be his first time? I don't think that paragraph even makes sense, hopefully now you can see the confusion I had to deal with. Yes because you have eyes and a higher thought processes, fucking hell I need help.

Anyway, about a month later (I hope you can get your little judgemental head around the fact that we had now been together more than 10 months and I had been living there more than a month, this was serious shit ok?) we did. Yeah I know, it was seriously a miracle, I couldn't believe it. And he was the one who suggests it. We were sharing a bed, for the second time, and even in August it was cold and raining so were cuddling and shit. And he just looks so fucking beautiful in the stupid lamp light so I'm just trying to think about my dead grandma and my old swimming teacher but I guess it didn't work. And he says 'you want to have sex with me' and again I'm like 'no! No seriously it's fine, I'm fine. It's just, don't worry it's just... You look nice tonight' and he sort of contemplates it and then says 'but you do want to at some point?' God, so I'm trying to think of a way to say yes without scaring us both to death, but I don't need to say anything. Mr genius detective who saw me staring across that shitty cafe knows exactly what I'm thinking. So he says 'yes' and smiles his god damn smile. Seriously, that smile could be a weapon of mass destruction, I would say it could cure cancer, but evidently it can't. Anyway, I'm like in a state of total shock and my whole body is slowly filling with butterflies. No, not butterflies, butterflies are nice nervous. Moths; I was terrified. And he grins again and says 'what?' and I'm like 'well, I just thought you were like, asexual or whatever...' and turning so fucking red you could call me a Taylor Swift album (ha ha ha worst pun ever feel free to be sick). And he takes my hands and says 'no. I just never thought I'd want to, and I never thought I'd find anyone who'd change my mind.'  
'Me?'  
'Obviously you.'  
But I still feel like I'm gonna throw up and I'm not sure at all, so I say 'are you... are you sure you want to do this?' and he kisses me and says 'if you want to.'  
'I... I do' and I'm blushing and biting my lip and then yeah...

I bet you thought you were getting a fucking full description didn't you? Well you can just piss off you perverted... machine. Everybody wants to know what the sex is like, well when I say everyone I mean Harry and the media. Well, it's great. Great? It's amazing, wonderful, fantastic, incredible, awesome, I'm out of adjectives. It's just as nice as shagging a girl but a _lot_ less complicated. No panicking about birth control, no bra straps that are like a fucking high tech double combination padlock to undo, no worrying about what works for girls, no worrying about whether she really meant yes and that you're going to get arrested etc. etc. And like the kissing, it's more equal. Because were both guys it wasn't as difficult, I know how dicks work I've got one, I don't know shit about vaginas man. And it was softer, gentler, like everything he does. But god was it good. Seriously, I don't understand how he can be so good at the physical side when he's such a total beginner. Man, how does he know how to turn me on better than anyone when he's never been touched before?! I want whatever he's having seriously. And despite the moths, we were fine. Past the initial hassle and awkwardness of getting undressed it was simple, easy, perfect. I was worried about going too fast, being too rough; but neither of us were, not once did he say he was uncomfortable and believe me if he was I would know. I was worried because I'd never been someone's first anything, and I was his first everything. But like I said, it was easy and I loved every second off it. I loved my fingers in his hair, I loved the feel of his cold skin against mine and how it warms with the contact, I loved the way he said my name, almost like a whisper. I loved the way he ran his thin fingers down my spine, I loved the taste of him, I loved the way he was so gentle taking my clothes off. I just love _him_ and all the little things about him.

* * *

The funeral was today. I know I said I'd go chronologically but I say a lot of things.  
It was quite small really, the only people who weren't family were me, mum, Harry and DI Lestrade. Sherlock does have a large extended family, but I was told not all of them even showed up. That fact pretty much sums up his relationship with family which is shit. I'd only met his brother, Mycroft, and parents but that was enough to see how much tension there is in this family. I mean Jesus Christ they barely even speak to each other except for shooting insults left right and centre. And let's just say some of the distant relatives seemed just that, distant. That is until I stood up. My god you should have heard it, I didn't think it was even humanly possible to whisper and mutter that loud. I'm guessing a lot of them are conservative, or evangelical or just plain homophobic because with all the death looks I was getting you would have thought I'd be the one in the coffin. Anyway, I'm walking to the front and literally everyone is staring at me and the church-pastor-bishop-dude introduces me as 'Sherlock's friend' and everyone starts fucking muttering again so I'm ok fuck this if they want to know what went on I'll tell them. So I did. I climbed into the box thing and told them. I say 'alright you can stop muttering now people, if you really want to know you can just ask. And yes. The answer's yes, he was my boyfriend.' you should have seen some of their faces, his parents practically looked ill so I'm like 'oh for god's sake! You're son's gay, deal with it. And before you start saying _oh you're young you don't know, it's not serio_us we've been together more than a year and I've lived with him for three months. Yeah. Um, anyway... I, uh just wants to say a few, uh, things...' I'm totally pissing myself at this point, everyone's staring and mum looks angry already (she told me not to lose my temper...) and I really really wanted to just get through it without stopping or fucking crying or something. 'Ok, uh... So before I met Sherlock I'd just come back from military service in Afghanistan, and I had no friends and I hadn't dated in about a year. I was so alone, and I owe him so much. He saved me, almost. You know when I got back I was walking with a cane? After about three months with him I didn't need it anymore. I'm serious. He... he's the best man, the most human... human being, that I've ever known and no one will ever convince me I don't love him.' a few of them literally shuddered at this point 'yeah I said love, get over it! And if you don't believe me, fuck you!' and at this point I'm giving the whole of them the middle finger, showing the ring which I put there for this exact reason, and mum's there trying to shut me up and Harry's laughing but she's got tears in her eyes. 'Oh yeah and that is a ring, yeah. And I'll give you three guesses who's wearing the other one!' and then mum shouts at me and I'm putting my hands up and saying 'alright, alright. Don't worry your homophobic little heads it's not an engagement ring.' but they were pissing me off so I thought if freak them out a bit more, 'then again it certainly isn't a purity ring either.' man that got a reaction, I thought his mum was gonna faint, one old women stood up and left. Yeah really. And my mum shouts again and Harry gets up and comes over to me but I push her away and finish. 'Look, all I wanted to do was say something without people being judgemental pricks but apparently I can't. Anyway, I just... Sherlock, my life did and would and does suck without you and I love you and I'm really gonna fucking miss you. You've done so much for me. But...' I don't even realise that I'm walking over to the coffin and unconsciously running my ring finger over the polished mahogany, 'there's just one more thing, one more miracle Sherlock... Just, don't. Be. Dead. Would you do that, for me? Just stop it, stop all this. Oh god...' and I'm trying so fucking hard not to cry but I can't. I just can't. I couldn't finish so I just sort of straightened up and tried to leave with dignity. I think I pulled it off.  
All through the rest of the day people avoided me like I had swine flu or something. Like a big black mass of bacteria when you put an antibiotic in a petri dish. He used to do that... Only Mycroft even talked to me, and only to sneer at my eulogy; 'Fan of Kelly Clarkson are we?'  
'Piss off'. (Later though he did say that he was sorry the woman left while I was talking which I guess is something...)

Later I went to visit the headstone. It's simple, plain black with only his name and the dates on it (21st January 1994 - 17th October 2013). Even though this time no one was watching me or making snide comments I still felt stupid talking to a piece of rock. I know Sarah would want me to write what I said; she'd say it would make me feel better. Well maybe it would, but I'm not going to. This might be a privet blog but there are some things I don't even want to write here. But I'll admit that I did cry this time, and I think that's ok. I think anyone would. I'm not ashamed. Despite what Sherlock's extended family think I am not ashamed of whom I love, it's my choice.

So anyway, I'm pretty fucking miserable at the moment but I think I'll feel better if I go back I when everything was fine. I'll write about the first time I said I love you. Maybe that'll be alright. I've done enough holding back tears for one day.

It was the morning after, but unlike with Jeanette I didn't wake up at 6am to her panicking about the pill and saying I had to leave now before the rest of the halls woke up. It was about 11 I would guess, I woke up to sunlight poking through the window and Sherlock stroking my face and murmuring at me. I smiled when I opened my eyes to see him right in front of me. 'Morning' he said, kissing me on the forehead. I smiled again and probably blushed, honestly you'd think after almost a year I could manage but no, and said 'any particular reason you woke me up?' He shrugged, 'I got bored of watching you sleep.' he's so matter of fact about it that I laugh, and he does his _why are you laughing at my perfectly logical explanation_ face. And I love that face and I love when he says stuff like that, and I just say 'I love you'. And it's true; I really really do love him. It's been almost a year and now I don't think I could bear to be without him. If I didn't know better I'd say that I love him with all my heart, but the heart is a muscle for pumping blood, nothing more. He, on the other hand, is so much more than muscle and bones and stomach cancer; and I love every bit of it. Even when he plays violin at 3am, even when he fills the fridge with a fucking severed head, even when he hacks my laptop.  
Then I realised what I'd said and just went 'shit' and tried to let go of his hands but he wouldn't let me. He laughs in his stupid low laugh thing that makes me freakin melt and kisses my fists gently, and he says 'I love you too'. And I knew then it was serious, this was long term. I know I lot of people say _I love you_ and aren't serious, I know a lot of people say _I love you_ and break up, but this isn't a lot of people; this is Sherlock Holmes. This is the guy who waited 19 years of his life to even go on a date, if he says he loves me, crazy as he must be, he loves me. He loves me. How many times have I repeated that hoping it will either finally sink in or I'll wake up? So I knew then that this could be permanent, and that was when I thought of it. Ok, I was kinda freaked out by the thought of long-term-permanent, but I knew it would work. I just thought, I love him and everything about him, when am I going to find that again? I'm serious about this and I know he wouldn't take ily lightly. So I did it, I went and bought the rings

The woman in the shop was a bit irritating, well very. Patronising, you know? 'Ooooh'ing and 'awwwww'ing the whole fucking time. But to me that's better than a homophobic nutjob kicking me out of the shop. Anyway, they're just simple silver bands, I mean I have like no money, they cost about 25 quid each with the engraving. Oh yeah, they're engraved. With our songs. Some people might think it's weird or corny, fuck those people, but I think it's better than having some cheesy message or a name. It's like an in-joke, something only we'd understand, but it's full of meaning. To someone else a silver ring (on my right middle finger, his is on the normal left ring finger but I didn't want people asking questions if it looked like a wedding band and I like to be able to give dicks the finger whilst giving them the extra kick in the balls of a promise ring) with 'arrival of the birds' etched on the inside means nothing, it doesn't even look like it means anything, but to me it's a promise I can carry with me and be proud of. And why shouldn't I be? I found someone I love and I want to be with the rest of my life, why can't I be proud of that and show it off with something physical and beautiful?

We went up to the hill a few nights later. It's one of our favourite places, even in the city you can see a lot of the stars. It's beautiful. We take a blanket and lie on our backs and laugh at the stars and share everything about the day and make out. It's awesome. But this night was different. For one this was the middle of September and it's pretty cold. He probably knew something was up because why would we sit on top of a hill on this amount of wind?  
I had the rings in my pocket and I was fucking shitting myself. Seriously this is the most terrifying thing I've ever done. You're asking someone to make a big commitment, basically saying 'here's my heart, please don't stamp too hard'. Then again he must have been scared shitless too; it must be hard to think in that situation... Well he didn't show it, too much. So we're talking and it turns to the other night and I say 'you said _I love you_...' and he says 'so did you'. Fair point. So then I take a huge breath and start. 'So, you're serious then? For you this is serious, long term?' he nods, 'ok, and when you say _I love you_, you mean it?' he nods again and interrupts me 'of course. You know this is different and new for me but I wouldn't have said it if I didn't believe it was true.'  
'Yeah,' I start again, I'm like sweating now, 'well, uh... Ok don't freak out! Please, don't panic, I'm not proposing or anything...' and I pull the box out. I made the boxes myself, it was extra to buy one so I folded up some paper and tied them with string. His eyes widen but that's pretty much it, he probably knew what was coming. 'Sherlock, I really really love you and I, uh, I think this could be a very long term permanent thing. I think if I can put up with your violin in the middle of the freakin might and the severed head in the fridge I can't think of any reason I would leave you, I honestly can't. So, I guess in asking, it's just a promise ring I guess...' I almost threw the box at him was so nervous, 'I uh, if you want to, I'm asking you to promise that, that you really love me and that you're not going anywhere.' god those words are the hardest thing I've ever had to say. He doesn't speak for what feels like ever and then says 'I can't promise not to leave, everyone has to die...' and that makes me laugh, it's just so typical of him.  
'Alright,' I say, 'how about you promise the only way you're leaving this is in a coffin?' he grins his fucking grin and nods slowly. I know it's cheesy and I know it's only a promise ring but I take it out and almost force it (I was actually happy that he was now eating so regularly that I'd underestimated the size of his finger) on. He murmurs 'my life would suck without you...' and I smile sheepishly and blush like a fucking idiot. He starts to slide mine on but I stop him and move it to my middle finger. For some reason I felt the need to explain the engravings and he gave me the _that's pretty freaking obvious_ look. Then I took his hand and cleared my throat and said 'so, uh, will you promise that you love me and that the only way you're leaving is in a coffin?'  
'I promise,' he says. And then he squeezes my fingers and does the same, except he sounds less panicked and a hell of a lot more professional, 'will you, John Hamish Watson, (I fucking hate my name, I mean Hamish?! Were my parents on an acid trip or something?!) promise that you love me and the only way you're getting out of this is in a coffin?'  
'I promise'.  
And hey, it may not have lasted long but technically he didn't break that promise.

* * *

Hey again text box,  
So I suppose this is the part when I should stop describing how wonderful he is and how much I love him and actually tell you why I am writing this, why I'm even here. I'm in therapy because he's dead and it really fucked me up. So I guess I should tell you how that happened. Ok, right then, I'm going to. Here goes. I'm writing it. Right now.

It was like two in the morning. We were sleeping, together, but I woke up and he wasn't there. The bed gets all cold when he isn't there. Anyway I sort of looked around and I guessed he'd gone to the loo but then I heard him. Retching and gagging and groaning. So I jump up and run into the bathroom and he's kneeling on the floor leaning over the toilet and throwing up. And I kneel down next to him and put my arm around him and I'm like 'what did you eat?!' and he's like 'nothing, it's not...' and then he starts coughing again and this time there's blood so I'm like 'holy shit, let my get you a drink...' but he can't even drink anything he's throwing up so much and the med student part of me is really panicking. He's already lost so much liquid, he's practically only coughing up stomach acid and blood because he's barely eaten. I'm like 'Sherlock you need to get some fluid in you, if you can't drink anything I'm gonna call an ambulance...'  
'No, no I'm fine...' he says, well splutters. And I'm like 'no you're fucking not Sherlock, that's blood! I'm calling an ambulance...'  
'No,' he says while shoving his phone into my hand, 'call my doctor. Speed dial 2'. And most of me is thinking _my_ doctor, why does he have a regular doctor? What's wrong with him? But a small bit of me is almost pleased because as I scroll down the list speed dial 2 is listed as Dr Phillip Rogers but 1 is set as John Watson. As I punch out the number I push the glass of water at him again saying 'you have to drink, seriously Sherlock or they'll have to get you on a drip.'  
The phone's answered after 3 rings and, I assumed Dr Rogers, said 'Sherlock? What's wrong what's happening?' there was no time to explain who I am or anything so I just said 'he's throwing up, coughing blood and I think stomach acid...' the doctor swore and said 'I'll be over in 10 minutes, what his fluid levels look like?'  
'Really low, he can't drink anything.'  
'Shit.' he groaned and I heard the sound of a door slamming and an engine starting 'Right we're going to need an intravenous, call an ambulance. Do you know what I mean? Can you give me vitals?'  
'Yeah, I'm a med student,' I curled my fingers comfortingly into his hair as I took a pulse with my other hand, 'pulse is elevated, temperature slightly above average, he's shaking and sweating...'  
The Doctor swore again, 'right call an ambulance and stay where you are I'll be right there.' and he hung up.

They weren't sure about letting me in the back of the ambulance but I didn't give them much choice, I climbed straight in and they couldn't really waste time arguing. They put him in an intravenous drip and started sticking all sorts of tubes all over his arms. I held his hand the whole time but I don't think anyone noticed, even Sherlock. I don't think he completely blacked out but he was in a really terrible way and too feverish and busy throwing up to notice. We stayed at St Bart's hospital.

It was almost 7 hours later before they even let me in the room. Dr Rogers had only managed to get in a few hours before me, bloody safety checks. Then I went in.  
He looked terrible. I mean for him. So pale and sickly and even thinner than normal. His skin went all sallow and clung to the bones. It made his cheek bones even more prominent, almost alien. So I'm hugging him so tight I probably disrupted one of the fluid bags and I say 'are you alright?'  
'are you?' he laughs but I kiss him so hard he can't finish, and I'm like 'Sherlock you really fucking scared me, don't ever do that again!' he didn't respond straight away, just sat there thinking with me sprawled across his chest. Then he says said slowly 'I can't make any promises...' and now was when I started to piece things together; the doctor on speed dial who knows all his vitals, the fact that he knew what was happening - that it had happened before, that they've put him in a long term ward. I started to get really worries at this point, I think of it was me hooked up to a heart monitor it would have been going nuts. And I said 'why, what's wrong with you?' again, he didn't answer so I said 'why is your doctor on speed dial? Were you ill before or something?' And he takes a deep breath and says 'I had stomach cancer.'  
I can't remember how I felt really, part of my brain was whirring uncontrollably, my med training kicking in and listing symptoms and cures but I couldn't focus on anything, the other part was completely blank.  
I just went 'you what...?' and he sighed and said 'I had stomach cancer, when I was 13. I was fine though, but Dr Rogers thinks I might have relapsed last night.'  
Now I definitely knew what I felt, I know I should have been concerned, but I was hurt and angry. I'm like 'why didn't you tell me?!'  
He was obviously really shocked that I was almost shouting at him, he kinda stammered and he never stammers 'I, I, I didn't want to tell you...'  
'Why the fuck not?!'  
'I didn't want to upset you, it was gone, I was healthy...'  
'But what's going to happen now?' I asked, suddenly panicking, 'will you be alright?!' He reached up to run his boney fingers through my hair to calm me down and almost whispered 'I don't know... If it is a relapse they might not have caught it early enough...' and at this point my mind is 100% blank apart from a huge swelling mass of fear. He can't... he can't die... It's like you go through life thinking you and everyone around you is invincible, then when you're actually faced with a situation like this you have no fucking idea what to do or how to deal with it. 'Don't say that...' I say 'you're going to be fine, you're not going anywhere.' and he just sighs and says 'I'll try…' I remember not saying anything back, just burying myself in his chest and not even noticing or caring when the nurse walked in. In any other situation I would have moved, but right now I wasn't thinking about being judged I was thinking about losing him and it took effort not to start sobbing there and then.

He was right, of course, it was a stomach cancer relapse. Hearing those words for the first time from a doctor's mouth made it worse, it made it more real. Cancer is just one of those things that seems to belong on tv, in charity leaflets and in sad John Green books, you never think about it coming near you. I know it's more common than people think, but does anyone really expect it? And if you ever think about it, you think about the weaker people, people you've seen in the background who get sick easily. You don't think about your strong willed, stubborn and healthy boyfriend. But with when I heard them say it I did think about it. I thought about how difficult this was going to be and what would happen if I lost him. I thought about how I shouldn't think that way.  
We stayed three nights at St Bart's, then Phil (Dr Rogers) worked out a chemotherapy schedule and said he'd be fine, but Sherlock said there was a 67% survival rate. I know it's over half and to him realism is optimism, but still, good job on the comforting front. Phil I could take Sherlock home if I promised to call him if there were any problems. And man where there problems.

I'd like to say he was fine, like one of those stories about people 'remaining calm while fighting and smiling until the end', he wasn't smiling, it was fucking difficult. I mean he wasn't hellish, but you can't expect someone with a stomach tumour to be pleasant all the time. Even though I knew it wasn't really his fault, it upset me. Not because he snapped and shouted and sulked sometimes, but because I knew how awful it must have been. He was pretty calm though most of the time, when he wasn't in physical pain, I probably would have been even worse. I mean he wasn't the one who needed constant emotional comfort, he just needed feeding and someone to hold a bucket and help him force the pills down. I know as an aspiring doctor I should have been better at it, but I was terrible. To be honest I probably cried a shit load more than he did. I think the only time he really lost it and was properly crying was when he pissed himself the first time.  
I woke up to him swearing loudly between sobs and trying to find towels and another sheet. I got up to help him change it but he made me go and make tea and wait in the living room. He was embarrassed, obviously, but what made him so upset was not being in control of himself anymore. It happened again and he started to tiered easily, I remember one afternoon we had to leave lunch mid-way through. I think that's what he hated most, not the medication or the chemo but the fact that he couldn't do as much. He's always so active and self-assured, he always managed on his own but now he was utterly dependant and he hated it. Having to leave everything early to get home, not being able to dash about on his cases, it infuriated him. Once, near the beginning, he tried to go off with Lestrade on a double murder enquiry but ended up calling me (I was shopping at the time) to come and get him because he was throwing up in the morgue toilet.

Every two weeks I took him to chemo. In the end he only went three times, but it was enough to make some of hair come out in clumps. He insisted it didn't bother him but he did wear a hat the last time we went out. I admit that I found it painful to watch it coming out in the shower and on brushes, having nothing to run my hands through. I know guys aren't supposed to care about hair as much as girls but it was so beautiful, thick black curls that looked good even when he'd just rolled out of bed. It was just another bit of him that I love and I missed it. The first time we went he was sick afterwards and wouldn't eat anything. He wouldn't admit it, but I'm sure he was scared. God knows I would have been. I held his hand while we waited and afterwards I realised I had marks where his fingernails had dug in.

I tried to keep things the same, but it was difficult. We still went out, but not as much. Mostly we stayed in, watching movies, playing games, making the most of what we both knew could be limited time. That was when it started to get really bad.  
After the third chemo session he was properly ill and needed to be on a drip again so we stayed the night. He said he wanted to talk to the doctors and I was kinda hurt when he made me wait outside. But to be honest it was probably for the best, I would have wanted to hear it from him. They all left the room with that look. You know, when anyone has bad news and you can just see it on their faces. Doctors do it a lot. They actually give you lectures on it, I know the look. Anyway, I practically bolted through the door and onto the chair beside him. And I just looked at him and said 'what is it? What's wrong?'  
What he said next are the worst possible words to hear. And I've heard a lot of horrible words, been part of a lot of terrible things, but this… this was 100 times worse. 'It's not working,' he said 'I've only got weeks, maybe less.'

You know in films when someone dies and they all compare it to drowning? And you're like 'stop being over dramatic? They're not. They must have all talked to someone in that situation because it honestly is like you're drowning. Like this huge weight has you by the ankle and is just slowly pulling you under where you can't think and its peaceful apart from this surge of adrenaline and your survival instinct kicking in. Your whole body is solely focused on kicking and puling to try and get yourself back to the surface but you just can't. The weight keeps pulling you down and you can't get rid of it. And your lungs are slowly filling and you're suffocating and your brain is torn between just giving up and keeping fighting to the end.  
I can't really remember clearly what happened then, I think I just broke down. Fell off the chair onto my knees. I don't think I even made any noise, I couldn't; I was drowning.

Sherlock had a pretty massive row with Phil about going home, the doctors wanted him to stay at Bart's on an intravenous and able to get life support if he needed it, but in the end we did get clearance to go back to 221b. I don't think even a doctor could face an argument with Sherlock Holmes. Life support. That was another thing.  
Before we left we discussed it. Well, Sherlock wanted to sort out all the legal stuff and I just sort of nodded and cried and denied we'd ever need it. By law, the next of kin or closet family member present makes the decision to turn off life support, he wanted it to be me. Obviously my reaction was 'I can't', and I meant it in two ways. One being that I genuinely didn't think I would be able to let go of him and flip that switch, the other being that crappy as his family relationships are, I didn't think I should take that away from them. But he just looks at me with his pathetic little pleading face and just says 'please?' and I'm like 'Sherlock I can't, your family should…' but he says 'I don't want them to. John I want you to do it.' And then I start fucking crying again and shaking my head and I'm like 'I can't, I can't leave you…' and he reaches up and wipes my tears with his thumb (at this point his fingers are so thin the ring slips about) and says 'please?' again and I know I have to, even if it's the most difficult thing I've ever done. Phil sorted the whole legal bit out for us. I like Phil. He's always positive but he never lies to you and he always puts the patient's wishes first. He's not judgemental either. I think after seeing me always there with Sherlock for five weeks and always hearing my voice on the phone and seeing me crying all the fucking time at his bedside he knew how close we are and appreciated why we wanted to do this. Sherlock's parents probably weren't pleased but again Phil explained that as a legal adult he could make the decision himself.

So anyway, we went home for the last week. It was the most difficult week of my life. I really tried to make it as normal and wonderful as possible but he kept throwing up or falling asleep and I kept crying everywhere.  
The night before he had to back to hospital we went up the hill. It was November by now and pretty fucking freezing, I leant him a hat and he leant me a scarf. We took about three picnic blankets and huddled in them under a tree. I'm glad we went out even though he probably felt crap, it was our last proper night together and it was nice. We just talked and cuddled and kissed. He tasted more like mouthwash than salt now, I think he was a bit paranoid because he was throwing up so much. He hummed me my violin song as he hadn't been able to play 'properly' for a few days. I thought I saw a shooting star but he said it was an aeroplane. I made a wish anyway. I wished he didn't have to leave. I brought popcorn to share – salt of course – but ended up eating almost the entire bag. He let me take the hat off, as we were alone, and I ran my fingers through what remained of his curls. He fell asleep on my shoulder and even when he wasn't looking I managed not to get depressed, I wasn't going to let anything ruin it.

The next night he was coughing blood again and I had to call Phil and an ambulance. They put him back on a drip, and life support this time which made me start to panic. He only lasted three days this time. It was awful. He couldn't swallow properly and had hardly eaten anything, he'd lost so much weight he looked like a skeleton, throwing up blood, and had really bad stomach pains. But despite all of this… it sounds selfish, hell it sounds fucking terrible, but I wish we'd had longer. Yeah. I know it would have just been more time he was suffering, more time I was suffering, but it would have been more time he was alive. Sarah thinks that's because I haven't come to terms with it, I haven't let go.

On the 17th of October, I flipped that switch. I know I shouldn't, it was a tumour that killed him not me, but part of me thinks of myself as a murderer. I'd been staying at Bart's with him the whole time, I didn't even bother going home at night. I was asleep but I woke up when he was sick again. I didn't bother calling the nurse, I knew how to deal with it. Once I'd sorted everything out again he started beckoning at me (at this point his voice was so weak I had to come right over to hear what he was saying) and he says 'I feel terrible.'  
'Do you want me to call the nurse?' I asked, starting to panic.  
'I don't know…' and I noticed at this point he was crying, 'John I think I'm going to die…' now I really freaked out, I'm like 'no you're, no you're fucking not. I'm calling Phil…' I pressed the alarm button and hit speed dial (2, I was still set as 1) and they all came running in with their equipment and clipboards and they're crowding round him until suddenly they part like the freakin red sea and all start leaving again. And I'm like 'hey, where are you going, what's going on?!' and Phil comes up to me and says 'he's right. We'll be right outside…' And I'm like 'no! No, he'll be fine, you said so! You've got to do something!' and he just looks at me and says 'he wanted you to do it' and leaves.

So I knelt down next to him and said 'please tell me you didn't send them away' and he smirks and says 'they can't do anything anyway, I'd rather it was just you and me.' And I don't want to cry because it'll just make it harder, but I'm biting my lip so hard I can almost taste blood. He is crying at this point, and wipes his eyes and looks at it like it's an alien species and says 'this is your fault.'  
'You have a freakin tumour in your stomach lining, how is that my fault?!' I said. He laughs softly, you can barely hear it 'no this… I wouldn't, it wouldn't be so difficult if it wasn't for you. I wouldn't mind so much if I wasn't leaving you.' And I start crying too and grab his hand and say 'you're not. You're not leaving me, I won't let you, you promised remember…'  
'I promised the only way I would leave would be in a coffin, I'm not breaking…'  
'Don't! Don't say that…' my visions properly blurred by now, I can't even speak properly for crying. He doesn't finish the sentence though, he starts holding his stomach with the hand I'm not clinging onto so tight it's going blue.  
'It hurts' he says and I can't bare it. I knew I had to do it, it was causing him too much pain to let it continue. 'Do it' he says and I nod. I'm told this is the point his parents showed up and were watching through the glass in the door, but I didn't notice. By now I'm crying so much I can barely see what I'm doing, he takes his hand away from his stomach and wipes my eyes and I can't help smiling a tiny bit because I love it when he touches my face. And I say 'I love you so much' and he smiles his fucking adorable, not quite cancer curing, smile and whispers 'I love you too. Please, please don't be sad…' How can I not be sad?! 'you were the best thing to ever happen to me.' And I'm shaking now and I just manage to choke out 'I love you' again and I kiss him. It was barely anything, he didn't have enough energy to even move towards me at this point and when I break away and move my fingers towards the switch (they make it really obvious so you don't get all prepared for the moment and then press the wrong one) he barely even whispers 'goodbye John'. And I press it and the machine stops whirring and now I don't even try not to cry and my tears are dripping onto his face. He blinks once more, and then he's still. I love his eyes but looking at them staring up at the ceiling creeps me out, so I take one last long look at them, and then I close them. I remember kissing his forehead and the nurses rushing back in with his parents but I think I must have blacked it out because I don't remember anything until I woke up the next day back in 221b.

* * *

Hey  
So that's it. I've written everything I'm going to write and Sarah will just be relieved that I've finished in fewer than 20,000 words. Not that she's going to read it. No one's going to read it. That was the whole point. But right about now I almost wish someone was so that my pathetic little story would serve as a lesson. I'm serious, if this was a movie the big moral lesson would be that love sucks. Well, love doesn't suck, loves great. No, losing love sucks. It's the worst pain I've ever had to deal with and I got shot. So what I'm saying is don't fall in love. There's just too much to lose. If you're given the choice then I'm begging you choose to walk away, walk away and don't let them get you. I couldn't bear to see the same thing happen to anyone else. Love is amazing, but life… life can do terrible things.


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